


Midnight Snack

by mimwrites (mimreads)



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Werewolves, jonmundhalloween
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-11-12
Packaged: 2021-03-09 06:22:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27309868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mimreads/pseuds/mimwrites
Summary: He glances up at the moon, only a smudgy pale blur behind a high layer of fog. Then he turns back to Tormund, eyes suddenly serious.“You’re Freefolk, aren’t you?” He asks after a moment.“That a problem?” Tormund tenses, wondering if his judge of character has failed him this time.“Not for me,” Jon counters, watching him intensely. Then he steps right into Tormund’s personal space, mouth close to his ear. “But that might not be true for others in this town. Keep an eye out, and watch your back.” He steps back. Tormund can still feel the ghost of his lips against his ear.Or: Tormund is the new guy in town.
Relationships: Tormund Giantsbane/Jon Snow
Comments: 31
Kudos: 125





	1. Welcome to Last Hearth

It’s a grey, foggy afternoon in late October when Tormund stops his car and looks at the little cottage in front of him. Half hidden behind big trees he can only see part of it through a gap in the shrubbery. It looks old, the dark grey stones weathered and blanketed by moss. He leaves his things in the car, for now, and follows the little path to the door. Up close he can see that the chimney is a little crooked and the roof needs some work. But that’s something Tormund is good at. Working with his hands, fixing things. Vines climb all over the front of the house, clinging to the rough stone. For his first permanent residence it’s not so bad, he thinks, as he turns the key in the lock.

The interior looks cozy if a little dark. He needs to cut some of the vines from the windows. The furniture is from the previous owner, he seemed to be very fond of dark wood. Tormund can live with that for now. He’s just glad he doesn’t have to worry about having to furnish the cottage before he starts his first day of work tomorrow. He hurls his things from the car and sinks down on the dusty wing back chair in front of the soot-blackened fireplace. But he’s too restless to relax, his foot tapping the floor in an uneven rhythm. Maybe he should find out if they have ale in this joint.

He trudges towards the church tower he saw on the drive here. It’s a half-hour walk until he reaches a little medieval marketplace not far from the church. Dusk has settled and one by one the street lamps flicker on. One house is more illuminated than the others, muffled sounds spilling out whenever the door opens. “Castle Black” reads a weathered wooden sign above the door. The black paint has mostly splintered off, revealing the ashen grey of the old wood underneath.

Tormund pushes through the door. The humid smell of too many unwashed people and alcohol assaults him, but he doesn’t mind. He walks straight to the bar and orders an ale. The barkeeper’s eyes linger on him for a moment but he brings him his ale straight away. He is a man in his sixties, if Tormund had to guess, deep lines cut from his nose to the corner of his mouth. His weathered face is framed by a shaggy mob of grey hair but his eyes shine with cunning.

“You’re new here. Welcome to Last Hearth. Name’s Mance.”

“Tormund,” he nods and takes a swig of ale.

He turns around slowly, leaning against the counter, ale in hand, and surveys the room. A bunch of tall, rugged men linger in the right corner near the windows. It wouldn’t surprise Tormund if he met some of them at work tomorrow. Two fit girls flit between the bar and the tables, a redhead and a tall blonde. They work the room with a no-nonsense attitude that Tormund appreciates in women. Always having a quick comeback at the unimaginative pick-up lines the poor sods throw at them, and openly chastising the sorry lot who can’t keep their hands to themselves. Tormund smirks into his ale.

Towards the back, a group of boys are in the middle of a pool game. It strikes Tormund that they are all rather short. One of them has long shaggy brown hair and a pointy face. Another one has ears that would make an elephant proud. Big Ears stands next to a wisp of a boy and they both watch the table spellbound. Someone is leaning over the table but he is mostly blocked from Tormund’s view by another, rather large guy, so Tormund can only see the boy’s backside. Not that he’s complaining, it’s a very nice view. Black, tight jeans hug the sinful curve of a plump ass.

The man must have made a good play because cheers suddenly erupt from the table, interspersed with groans from the opposing team. The fat boy is thumping the player on the back giddily. When Mr. Nice Ass straightens Tormund catches sight of an unruly mop of black curls and an appealing profile, framed by a dark beard. He sticks out among his group of friends like a daisy in the gravel of his driveway.

Tormund angles his body slightly, resting his arm on the counter, so he can watch the group better while he nurses his ale. The lads shuffle around the table, taking turns. After a while they notice him watching because they start throwing him curious looks and talk in hushed voices. But Tormund only focuses on Mr. Nice Ass. Finally, the boy looks up and their eyes meet. It really is a pretty face, although there is something haunted in his dark gaze. Tormund shows his appreciation with a smile and tips his mug in his direction. The boy’s companions chuckle and Tormund can see his face heating up even from the distance.

Amused and a little melancholy, Tormund turns back to the bar and orders another ale. He chats a bit with the redhead, Ygritte, the conversation truncated whenever she has to distribute another round, but picking up right where they left off. Tormund instantly decides that he likes her.

When the old grandfather clock next to the bar strikes eleven, he takes this as his cue to leave. He’s not really nervous about his first day of work tomorrow; he’s rarely nervous about anything. But it doesn’t hurt to get a good sleep. He’s had a long day after all.

On his way out the door he collides with another person. Tormund’s arm shoots out to grab the man by his elbow to save him from falling down the two steps to the sideway and cracking his head. But the other man jumps back so fast, Tormund only catches air. After landing nimbly on light feet, the guy straightens and to his delight, Tormund recognizes Mr. Nice Ass.

“Sorry ‘bout that.”

“No harm done.” The lad’s voice is surprisingly deep.

“I’m Tormund. It’s a pleasure to meet you…?”

“Jon.”

Short and sweet. Tormund has to bite his tongue to not say that out loud. Judging by the amused and slightly exasperated glint in Jon’s eyes he knows what’s going through his head anyway.

“Welcome to Last Hearth.”

“That obvious, huh?” Tormund is not surprised Jon immediately discerned he was new in town just like the barkeeper did. Wary or downright hostile glances have followed him wherever he went since he crossed south of the Wall. “Well, seems like a nice little town. I’ve been appreciating the sights so far,” Tormund says lightheartedly.

Jon rolls his eyes, running his hand through his curls but the side of his mouth quirks up a bit. He glances up at the moon, only a smudgy pale blur behind a high layer of fog. Then he turns back to Tormund, eyes suddenly serious.

“You’re Freefolk, aren’t you?” He asks after a moment.

“That a problem?” Tormund tenses, wondering if his judge of character has failed him this time.

“Not for me,” Jon counters, watching him intensely. Then he steps right into Tormund’s personal space, mouth close to his ear. “But that might not be true for others in this town. Keep an eye out, and watch your back.” He steps back. Tormund can still feel the ghost of his lips against his ear.

“Is this a threat?” Tormund’s eyes dart around the dark marketplace.

“You know it’s not.” Jon’s brows knit into a frown. His eyes must catch the dim light at an odd angle because Tormund swears they are glowing red for a second. Yet despite the somber turn their conversation has taken, Tormund can’t help but feel intrigued by this man.

“‘m afraid I don’t, since I don’t know you at all. How about we change--”

“Jon! There you are. Sorry, for keeping you waiting.” The fat guy from the pool game has tumbled out of the door and rushes to Jon’s side. Tormund watches, fascinated by how Jon’s expression turns soft.

“It’s okay. Let’s get you home. Gilly must be waiting already.” His gaze finds Tormund over the guy’s head. They lock eyes for a moment, shooting a little thrill through Tormund’s gut. Jon’s are dark again, he notices.

“See you around, Tormund.” Jon nods and pulls his friend down the dark street.

‘Well that wasn’t ominous at all,’ Tormund thinks as he scans his surroundings again. But everything is quiet. He slowly trudges home, his steps echoing loudly in the dark streets. A few times his neck prickles and he gets the feeling he is being followed. But whenever he stops and turns around he sees nothing but darkness.

***

After his first day of work Tormund only wants to fall into his bed and sleep. He grabs a can of ale from the fridge and sinks into the old wing back chair in front of the fireplace, stretching out his aching legs in front of him. It’s not that he isn’t used to hard work. Tormund has never shied away from physical labor. He didn’t have the luxury. Up north, they all had to work hard to survive. Still, his muscles need a few more days to get used to this particular exercise. The rangers have put him in the front team. While most of his colleagues mow down their trees with electric saws and heavy machines, he gets to cut down the hard to reach ones by hand, with only his axe. It’s what he prefers because these old woods deserve some respect. They feel a little bit like home.

The loud clang of his can hitting the floor startles Tormund awake. He must have nodded off in his chair despite the cold. Without the fire, his cottage is freezing. Tormund yawns, cracking his jaw, and rubs his face tiredly. On his way to the bedroom he stops by the window and looks outside.

The full moon hangs heavy in the dark sky, glowing slightly orange. At the border of his property, trees line the horizon in a jagged silhouette. The howl of a wolf disrupts the silence of the night. Tormund shivers. Then he squints, stepping closer to the window. His breath is fogging up the glass, but Tormund swears he saw something move. He grabs his gun from beside his bed and steps out.

There, in front of the trees, a massive white shape is moving fast but it stills when the door falls shut behind Tormund with a bang. Heart racing, he grips the barrel of the gun tighter. The loud, mournful howl of a wolf echoes through the night again, and Tormund realizes that it’s coming from the white shape in the distance. Somewhere far away, an echoing howl answers. He hastily retreats into his cottage and locks the door, panting harshly. Back inside he tries to calm down. He is no stranger to wolves. They were a staple of the North, like the wide expanse of ice and snow, the brilliant night sky. And he prefers having a massive white wolf prowling his lands to some unknown human intruders. But an unsettling feeling lingers under his skin. He heads to his bedroom, and tries to find sleep to the song of the wolf.

In the morning, a heavy bank of fog has rolled down from the mountains. Tormund curls his hand around his coffee mug and takes a few steps into his overgrown garden. The air is fragrant with the earthy smell of rotting leaves. He ducks under long tendrils of spider’s silk, heavy with dew. The steam curling from his coffee blends into the fog surrounding him, bathing everything in a milky twilight. Tormund takes a sip and ponders what he should do about the garden. He rather likes the wild, overgrown look although he supposes he should clear the pathway to his car a bit. To the left, there is a patch that looks different, somewhat less grown. When Tormund wanders over he realizes that this area was used for a bit of farming. Some potatoes and vegetables probably. This is something Tormund could see himself doing, come spring.

He lets his gaze sweep over the large meadow behind the small field. His brows pull together in a frown. Not far from the trees marking the border of his land lies something in the grass. It’s hard to see in the fog but the shape is considerably smaller than the wolf Tormund saw last night. So he forgoes returning to the house to grab his gun and approaches cautiously. When he realizes the motionless form comes in the shape of a human he quickens his steps.

There is a naked man lying in his garden.

Tormund looks around, his heart starts beating faster. Maybe he should have gotten his gun after all. Everything is quiet, the fog muting every sound. He takes a couple of steps closer. From this distance, he can make out an unruly mop of dark, curly hair. That propels him forward to close the remaining distance. Tormund grabs the naked man by his shoulder and turns him on his back. It’s Jon. He quickly kneels down and presses his ear to Jon’s chest. He can barely make out a heartbeat over his own ragged breathing.

“Jon. Wake up!” He slaps Jon’s cheek, but the boy doesn’t react, his head lolling to the side. Tormund looks around again, dread churning in his gut. His mug lies forgotten at his side, bleeding coffee into the cold ground. Jon’s lips have turned blue, his skin is ice cold to the touch. Tormund picks him up and carries him back to the house. For such a little fucker he is surprisingly heavy.

Inside the house, Tormund dumps him in the bathtub and turns on the tap all the way to scalding. He quickly scans Jon’s body for wounds but there are no fresh marks on his skin except for an old scar on his shoulder and a couple more on his chest. Several round marks pierce the otherwise smooth, milky skin above Jon’s heart. Tormund’s brows climb up to his forehead. These look like old gunshot wounds but that can’t be. Jon could never have survived those.

His gaze travels back to Jon’s face. His lips have started to lose the blue tint and some color has slowly crept back into his cheeks. Suddenly Jon’s eyes snap open, he takes a gasping breath.

“You are safe. It’s okay,” Tormund soothes, putting his hands on Jon’s arms. But this has the opposite effect and Jon splashes wildly in the tub, ripping his arms out of Tormund’s grasp. Tormund holds up his hands placatingly. “Calm down. You’re safe, Jon.”

Jon stops thrashing and settles. He leans his head against the back of the tub and takes another deep breath. Tormund shuts off the tap.

“Want to tell me why I found you naked in my garden?” Tormund asks, not unkindly but straight to the point. He really wants to know what the hell is going on.

When Jon’s eyes open again he’s lost the wild look. Chagrined, he peeks at Tormund from underneath his eyelashes.

“Sorry about that,” he croaks, clears his throat, then tries again. “Must have been sleepwalking again.”

Tormund tilts his head. “Sleepwalking. Naked. In this cold.”

Jon ducks his head. There is now definitely color rising in his cheeks. If Tormund wasn’t so sure that Jon is bullshitting him, he would be charmed by the sight.

“Don’t take me for a fool, Jon.” He keeps his eyes on Jon’s face, forbidding himself to get distracted by all that naked, glistening skin in front of him.

Jon turns his head and fixes Tormund with an intense look. “It’s true.” His voice has dropped into a low gravel. “I live not far from here, just on the other side of those woods. I must have wandered out in the middle of the night.” His eyes are almost black in the dim light. Tormund feels a weird pull in his gut.

“And I prefer to sleep in the nude. I’m always running hot.”

Tormund swallows.

The corner of Jon’s sinful mouth lifts up a bit. “Anyway, I need to get going, and I’m pretty sure you do too.” The moment shatters and Jon climbs out of the tub hurriedly. Tormund shakes himself out of whatever spell he’s been under. He passes Jon a towel wordlessly.

“So, neighbors, huh?” Tormund can’t help it, his eyes are following the curves of Jon’s body while he is rubbing himself dry. That ass looks every bit as spectacular as Tormund imagined it to be. Jon looks at him over his shoulder and Tormund snaps his eyes back up to his face.

“Can you lend me some clothes?” He asks with a knowing glint in his eyes. “I’ll get you a beer tonight at Mance’s.”

“How can I turn down such an alluring offer?” Tormund disappears into his bedroom to search through his closet.

***

When Tormund steps through the door at Castle Black that night it feels different. He nods to the group of lumberjacks by the window. As he suspected two nights ago, they are some of his workmates. He can’t remember their names yet, save for Torben who nods back in greeting. After Jon’s warning that first night, he’s careful around people. But so far nobody has been overly hostile to him yet. Ygritte greets him with a big smile, passing by him with a tray full of ale. He goes to the bar and waits for Mance to come over.

“Is Jon here? Boy owes me a beer.”

Mance raises one eyebrow, sweeping a rag over the counter, but then shrugs and nods to the back of the room. Sure enough there he is, clad in tight black jeans and a leather jacket, deep in conversation with one of the boys Tormund recognizes from the pool game. The other waitress that’s not Ygritte, the tall blond one, walks by and leans all the way into Jon’s space, whispering something in his ear. Jon smiles, shaking his head, and shrugs her off gently. With a flip of her hair and an exaggerated sigh, she returns to the bar to refill some of the cups.

Tormund watches all of this amused. As if sensing his stare Jon’s eyes meet his. He says something to his mate without taking his eyes off Tormund. A small spark of heat ignites at the back of Tormund’s spine. Then Jon comes over to the bar and motions to Mance for two ale.

“So, how was work?” He climbs on the barstool next to Tormund.

“Good,” Tormund replies, making himself comfortable. “Cut down some trees.” He nods Mance his thanks and takes a deep gulp of ale. “No surprises.”

Jon lowers his eyes. “That’s good.” He knocks his cup to Tormund’s.

“I guess you’ve already met Ygritte and Val. Don’t get on their bad sides. That guy over there? The one I was talking to when you came in? That’s Edd. Good guy, mate of mine.”

Tormund watches Jon while listening to him dropping bits of information on the various patrons in the bar. He didn’t strike Tormund as a talker, so he guesses that’s Jon’s way of making up for their unusual morning meeting. And it doesn’t hurt to get a bit of intel on the people he now lives with. Tormund rips his gaze from Jon’s mouth and takes in their surroundings, Jon’s low commentary still in his ear. Now he realizes why it feels different. Whereas two nights ago people were openly ogling him, some even throwing dark looks, tonight nobody's eyes linger on him. It’s almost as if the other patrons try very hard not to look at him and Jon, save for the ladies who clearly don’t give a fuck about whatever unspoken rule has been passed. Ygritte winks at him when she walks past and the blonde one, Val, throws daggers at him with her eyes.

Tormund turns back to Jon, who has stopped talking for a moment to finish off his ale.

“C’mon, the next round is on me.”

Val slams two refilled mugs down in front of them, spilling their contents so that their mugs now sit in a little puddle.

“Looks like we got on her bad side already,” Tormund shrugs.

Jon’s lips twist in a wry smile.

“Why’d you turn her down?” Tormund can’t help but ask. He is curious.

Jon fishes his mug out of the puddle of ale and takes a hearty swig, trying not to drip on his pants.

“I don’t date.”

Something like disappointment stirs in Tormund’s belly.

“Because of your work?” Jon’s smile turns bitter.

“No. Not because of work.”

“What is it that you are doing for a living, Jon?”

Jon cuts his dark eyes back to his over the rim of the mug. He lowers his ale and licks a bit of foam from his upper lip. Tormund’s eyes follow his tongue.

“I’m in the security business.”

“Security?” Tormund echos doubtfully. “And what exactly are you guarding?”

“The refugee camp a little farther up north.”

Tormund stills. He looks at Jon who is regarding him with serious, kind eyes. Right. The camp. For his people. The ones who weren’t as lucky as Tormund to find a job right away, who didn’t have anything left to trade for money. Guilt crawls up his throat, threatening to choke him. He swore to himself he would get settled first, earn some coin, and then he would get them out of the camp one by one. He might be the only one of his clan left, but they are still his people. He suddenly feels like shit. Desperate for a change of topic, and to escape the sympathetic look in Jon’s eyes, he blurts out the first thing that comes to mind.

“That where you caught those bullets?”

Jon’s face shutters. He grabs his jacket from the nearby barstool and hops down. Tormund curses inwardly and grabs his arm.

“Wait! Fuck, Jon, I’m sorry. That’s none of my business.”

Jon looks from Tormund’s hand on his bicep to Tormund’s face. His eyes have lost all of their warmth. Tormund feels a chill run down his spine at his cold, icy gaze. But then Jon sighs and shakes his head.

“Wanna head home? We have the same way, right?” Tormund asks.

Jon’s eyes sweep around the bar.

“Yeah, let’s go,” he says quietly.

Tormund waves to Ygritte and follows Jon out the door. It’s a little awkward between them now. Tormund curses himself that he put his foot in his mouth.

“Thanks for the ale,” he tries. Jon just grunts in response.

Together they cross the marketplace and follow the main street, heading towards the edge of town. It’s overcast tonight, not a star in sight. Everything is plunged into darkness save for the little islands of light underneath the street lamps. Suddenly Jon stops and turns to the right. Tormund nearly bowls him over. He halts his steps and looks around but he can’t see shit. After a few moments, several dark shadows emerge from the adjoining street. Tormund tenses and looks to Jon. Outwardly, Jon hasn’t moved a muscle, calmly regarding the group of men. But his whole aura has shifted. Tormund can taste violence in the air.

“Is that you, Snow? Got yourself a new boyfriend?” One of the men calls out.

“Piss off, Glover.”

“What? Is fat Tarly not good enough for you anymore?” Some of the other men start shushing him, trying to pull him down the street.

“If you know what’s good for you, you’ll shut up right now.” Jon retorts, his voice deadly calm.

“Yeah, or what--”

“Shut the fuck up, Glover!” One of the other men hisses and together they drag their companion down the street hastily.

Tormund exhales harshly. Jon still hasn’t moved, but the air feels somewhat calmer around them.

“The fuck was that?”

“Don’t mind them.”

Jon starts walking again, and Tormund hastens to follow him. He hadn’t only meant the guy trying to pick a fight, but the fact that the rest of the group seemed afraid of Jon. Tormund is smart enough not to prod any further tonight though. So he bites his tongue and falls into step beside him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much, Salon_Kitty and half_life!


	2. The shed

Over the next couple of weeks Tormund slowly settles into his new life. His body gets used to swinging an axe for most of the day. Some of his undershirts are already starting to stretch across his shoulders. Torben turns out to be a decent guy. It is he who Tormund spends most of his lunch breaks with. Torben grew up in Last Hearth and tells Tormund a bit about the town’s history. He learns that the previous owner of his house disappeared under mysterious circumstances although the man was rather old. It’s one of the reasons the house and surrounding land was so cheap. Nobody wanted to live there. Torben also warns him to stay out of the woods at night. Tormund has a feeling there is more to the story but he doesn’t prod.

His other workmates mostly keep a wide berth around him but Tormund can live with that. Apart from a few exceptions, he is not overly keen to mingle with the folk here anyway and nobody has given him shit yet. He wonders if that has something to do with Jon. They keep meeting up at Mance’s and Jon introduces him to the rest of his short boys’ club. It turns out they all work together at the camp. To Tormund’s delight, Jon even invites him to his house at one point. 

As long as Tormund doesn’t mention the bullet holes or Jon’s alleged sleepwalking, the boy is affable enough. He doesn’t talk much though, so Tormund’s initial impression had been right. But when he does, Tormund finds that he’s come to like the lad beyond just liking  _ to look at _ him.

When he gets his first paycheck after a month he goes over to Castle Black, intent on shouting the first round for Jon and the boys. But Jon is nowhere to be seen. He flags down Edd, the little pointy guy.

“You’ve seen Jon?”

“No, he called in sick today. I took his shift,” comes the gruff reply.

Tormund’s good mood evaporates. He realizes that hanging around Mance’s isn’t half as fun without the moody little fucker. 

Ygritte plunks a big mug of ale in front of him. “Cheer up, big guy.”

Tormund polishes off his ale but he doesn’t stick around long after. He stuffs his fists into the warm pockets of his coat and marches home. The nights are getting colder. A thin layer of frost creeps over the window planes he passes. The full moon bathes the town in a silvery light. When Tormund leaves the glow of the streetlamps behind, the stars come out in full force. He looks up at the sky, his heart aching a bit. Nights like these remind him of home. Then he turns up the collar of his coat and quickens his steps. The fog of his breath shrouds him in a little cloud of mist.

When he leaves the road to walk the unpaved path towards his house he hears a weird noise. It reminds him of a wolf’s howl but it’s somehow muffled, accompanied by a dull crash. Blood freezing, Tormund realizes he hasn’t thought of the big white wolf since that first night. Dread seizes him and he hastens his steps, hurrying to his cottage. Tormund has no plans to end up as a midnight snack. Not even for a beast as beautiful as that one. 

Another crash echoes through the night and Tormund breaks into a run. The branches he still hasn’t gotten around to cutting slap against his face, reaching for him with gnarly fingers.

When the dark silhouette of his front door appears in front of him, he sends a silent thanks to whoever might be watching over him. He throws the door shut and sinks against it, gasping for air. He stays like this for a moment, giving his heart the chance to calm down before he goes to his bedroom, shedding his clothes. When he crawls under the thick covers he thinks he hears another howl but he isn’t sure. 

This night, sleep doesn’t come easy.

In the morning Tormund heads over to Jon’s. The weird noises have followed him through the night and he wants to ask Jon, if he’d heard anything. Might just as well bring him some soup and check up on him. But when Tormund arrives at Jon’s house, an old cottage similar to Tormund’s except that it’s made out of wood, everything is eerily silent. He gets a sinking feeling in his stomach.

Tormund knocks at Jon’s door. There is no answer but the door gives a bit. It’s not locked. Slowly Tormund pushes it open. Dread creeps up his spine. What if Jon is really sick? 

He rushes to Jon’s bedroom only to find it empty. The bed doesn’t even look slept in, dark blue sheets neatly folded. Tormund puts the thermos with his chicken soup on the kitchen table and checks every room. Jon is nowhere to be found. His leather jacket hangs on the hook beside the front door next to a huge fur-lined winter coat. His black car is frosted over in the driveway. Tormund feels his fingertips turning numb with worry. He goes back outside and walks a circle around the house, calling out for Jon every few meters. When he reaches the front door again, Tormund's eyes fall on a shed next to the house. The uneasy feeling intensifies.

Tormund approaches hesitantly, but when he tries the door, it’s locked. He looks around and spots a pile of bricks next to the shed. He picks up one and starts hammering away at the lock. He doesn’t know why, but he needs to get that door open. When the lock cracks after what feels like an eternity, he throws himself against the door and it finally gives. His eyes need a moment to adjust to the darkness, but when they do a gasp leaves his lips. There, on the cold floor, lies Jon, naked. Again. His right ankle is clasped by a shackle but the chain has been ripped off the hook in the wall. The inside of his hands and his fingers are pierced with wooden splinters, some of them bleeding. A dark bruise is forming on his shoulder. Deep gashes slice the surrounding walls. The entire floor is littered with plaster, shards and wooden splinters. A wooden shelf has crashed down to the floor, spilling paints, brushes and all kinds of tools. At the far end of the shed lies an overturned metal locker.

“The fuck?”

Tormund quickly wades through the chaos, picks Jon up and returns to the house. After depositing him in the tub and turning on the water, he ruffles through Jon’s bathroom cabinet, looking for medical supplies. While the tub fills slowly, clouding the room in steam, Tormund picks out the splinters from Jon’s fingers. When he tries to remove a particularly big one from the flesh of Jon’s hand the boy flinches.

“Ow.”

Tormund grips his wrist tighter and rips out the splinter with his tweezers. Adrenaline is still pulsing in his veins. He has to fight hard to keep his voice under control.

“Welcome back. What in the everloving fuck happened here last night?”

Jon blinks owlishly for a few moments before his eyes focus on Tormund.

“It’s not what it looks like.” His voice is scratchy.

“So, nobody locked you up in your torture chamber over night?”

Jon chuckles mirthlessly.

“No. I locked myself up.”

Tormund lowers his hand with the tweezers. He gives Jon an incredulous look.

“Edd said you were sick.”

Jon nods tiredly. “I’ve been having more sleepwalking episodes.” He doesn’t meet Tormund’s eyes though. “I locked myself up, so I wouldn’t wander into your garden again and scare you to death.” He risks a glance at Tormund’s face from underneath his lashes and gives him a tentative smile. 

“This isn’t funny.” Tormund glares at him. The smile slides off Jon’s face and he sighs.

“Don’t worry about me, Tormund,” he says seriously. “I’m fine.”

“Doesn’t look fine to me,” Tormund mutters. He knows Jon is not telling him everything, and he decides to go home before he blurts out something he regrets.

“There is soup on the kitchen table,” he says gruffly and leaves.

  
  


***

  
  


Jon invites him over for dinner the following week. Tormund has given him the silent treatment the past couple of days but he is already sick of it. He misses sitting with Jon at the bar, watching his attempts to fend off Val and talking about everything and nothing. The realization of how fast Jon has become a staple in his new life here should scare him but it doesn’t. It only comes with a hint of wistfulness. And he is aware that knowing Jon only for a couple of weeks also means he can’t expect him to spill his whole life story. So he agrees to come. And if he is being honest, the images of Jon, naked and wet in his bathtub, still haunt him at night. Anticipation flutters in his chest when he emerges from the trees separating their lands and his eyes land on Jon’s house. Light spills from the windows, little beacons in the darkness of night.

To his surprise Jon is a decent cook. The goose is tender, the meat nearly melts off the bone while the skin is crunchy and well seasoned. Red cabbage and potatoes round out the dish. Jon even serves red wine. It’s not bad although Tormund still prefers ale. They settle in front of the fire with a second bottle. Jon’s cheeks are flushed, if from wine or the fire Tormund doesn’t know. But it’s a fetching look. Tormund is not tipsy yet, far from it, but he still feels a little drunk. A low heat settles in his belly.

“I was with the police before..” Jon begins after a long moment. Tormund turns slightly on the sofa, so he can watch him better. Jon has folded one leg under him, balancing the wine glass loosely in the hand resting on his knee. The arms of his thick blue jumper rolled up to his elbows.

“I told you I grew up a few towns farther south. It’s called Winterfell. My family still lives there. But I wanted to get away after I finished school. So I signed up at the police academy at the Wall. Our chief was a great man. Still is. For some reason he took a liking to me. Supported me whenever he could. But most of the others were pigs.” Jon takes a swig of wine.

Tormund knows that this is Jon’s attempt at making amends. Giving him a glimpse into his life. Trying to lift the shroud of mystery that seems to surround him. And as much as Tormund wants answers, he supposes he doesn’t have the moral high ground here. Because he hasn’t talked to Jon about his old life with the Freefolk either. And Jon accepted it without a word, never prodded once. So this somewhat clumsy attempt to bridge the small gap that opened between them, after he found Jon in his shed, warms him to his core.

“When the refugee crisis started,” here he gives Tormund a hesitant look, “tensions were high. A big part of the force didn’t agree with the decree to open the border, yet we were supposed to help them cross south. I didn’t keep my mouth shut. Confronted everyone who refused an order, told Mormont. When we were called on a rescue mission north of the Wall I got shot. Quit the force after that. Suppose I can be more of use with the work I’m doing now.”

He finishes off his glass of wine and pours himself another. Tormund holds out his empty glass as well. He watches the glow of the fire dance over Jon’s skin and mulls over what he has been told. The cozy atmosphere has become heavy, weighted down by Jon’s tale. His warning to Tormund on that first night makes an awful lot of sense now.

“Thank you.” 

Jon’s eyes dart to him. 

“For telling me.” 

Jon nods and turns his gaze back to the fire. A comfortable silence settles between them. Jon shows no sign that he expects some nuggets from Tormund’s life in return. Which is exactly why Tormund decides to share something.

“You know the real reason we went south, in a land that doesn’t want us?”

Jon looks back up at him questionably.

“I keep hearing that the Freefolk only came south because they want in on your welfare system. That we were too lazy to work. But the truth is, we were dying. Entire villages. Tribes like mine, who didn’t live in settlements, who were roaming the lands with cattle, living as nomads, we were the first.”

Jon’s eyes widen. He puts down his glass and inches closer to him but Tormund has to look away. The memories still haunt him.

“The weather got worse over the years. The winters lasted longer and longer, but we still prevailed, even though we lost so much cattle each season. But a few years from now, the dzuds started. The temperature would suddenly drop to 50 degrees below zero overnight. Killing our entire livestock in just a few hours. And most of the people in smaller tents. We lost everything. You simply can’t fight the cold.”

Tormund blinks away the wetness in his eyes. He feels Jon’s hand on his leg and turns his head back to him. Jon is suddenly very close.

“I’m so sorry, Tormund,” he says quietly, his eyes full of compassion. It makes Tormund’s heart clench.

He clears his throat and gently slaps Jon’s cheek.

“Good to know that not everyone is an arsehole south of the Wall.”

Jon gives him a small smile but his eyes still shine with sadness. They refill their glasses and make themselves more comfortable. Jon leans against Tormund’s shoulder and tells him about his little sister, probably sensing that Tormund has trouble shedding the ghost of his past. Gradually Tormund calms, lulled into drowsiness by the pleasant sound of Jon’s voice. 

When Tormund blinks his eyes open, the first thing he notices is a crick in his neck and something heavy on his belly. Light filters through the curtains and it takes him a moment to realize where he is. He is still at Jon’s. He looks down his nose and is greeted with a mess of dark curls on his chest and the sound of Jon’s snoring. His arm is draped over Jon’s back possessively. A peculiar feeling steals over him. Tormund allows himself a moment to imagine a future where he wakes up like this with Jon every morning. Well, maybe not cramped on the sofa with a crick in his neck, but in the bedroom. After a quiet evening in front of the fire and a not so quiet night under the sheets. 

He never thought he would want something like this. Settling down with someone, growing roots. The wide expanse of the North is in his blood just like the seasonal routine of breaking camp and rebuilding every few months. There was just always the possibility of starting over somewhere new, and the freedom that implied was precious to him. He’s a nomad at heart.

But Jon never makes him feel caged. He respects when Tormund needs space and doesn't put any expectations on him he can't meet. Maybe because Jon is a kindred spirit, a restless soul himself. The thought of tentatively building something with him is more appealing than it has any right to be. 

Then Jon squirms above him and his bladder screams in protest, shattering his fantasy. 

“Jon. Wake up, boy,” he rumbles, giving Jon a gentle tap on his ass.

Jon instantly tenses and shoots up wild eyed. 

“Hey, hey, it’s just me.”

Jon looks down at him. He is still kneeling on Tormund’s thighs, rubbing his eyes.

“C’mon, let me up. My neck is killing me and I need to use your bathroom.”

“Of ‘crse” Jon slurs but he jumps off the sofa limber as a cat.

When Tormund returns from the bathroom, rubbing his neck, he follows the smell of fresh coffee. Jon putters around the kitchen barefoot, throwing some eggs in a pan. His blue jumper is as rumpled as Tormund’s checkered one. He hands Tormund a mug of steaming coffee. Tormund is again struck by how domestic this all feels. It’s more tempting than he is comfortable with. Especially since he doesn’t know if Jon feels the same way.

“Want some breakfast?” Jon asks with a look over his shoulder. He has pulled together his hair in a messy bun.

“I’d love to, but I’m pretty sure I’m already late. Need to head home to change.”

Jon just nods. Tormund eviscerates his coffee in three large gulps and puts the mug on the table. He steps close to the stove and lays a hand on the back of Jon’s neck.

“Thank you. For last night.”

Jon looks up from the pan and gives him a small smile. “Next time it’s your turn to cook.”

“If you can handle it.” Tormund grins and leaves the kitchen before he does something stupid like kiss him.


	3. Shedding blood

Tonight, Tormund is in a bad mood. 

The past weeks have gone by in a blur. Tormund meets Jon and the others at the bar from time to time but he prefers their quiet dinners, when it’s just the two of them and he has Jon to himself. Jon tends to be more open when they are alone. He tells him how Grenn, Pyp, Sam, and Edd quit the force with him and followed him to the security service. Sam, in particular, had a rough time on the police force. Tormund also learns that Jon never knew his mother and why he was so desperate to leave his family despite missing them terribly. 

Things at work have quieted down as well, after the first snow fell. Now they are mostly called to clear the roads from fallen branches in between cutting Christmas trees.

Yesterday, Tormund had a run in with the guy who heckled Jon and him on their way home a couple of weeks ago. The fact that Jon wasn’t with him this time apparently gave him the courage to be extra obnoxious. Nothing Tormund couldn’t handle but it’s still not his idea of fun to be called xenophobic slurs and worse. 

The fact that Jon isn’t at the bar tonight is not doing anything to lighten his foul mood. According to Grenn, he was at work today but he hasn’t shown up at Castle Black yet. Tormund decides to wait a little longer and nurses his ale. When Jon still hasn’t shown his face an hour later, Tormund stomps home grumpily. The snow is crunching under his boots. That too isn’t helping his mood. It’s nowhere near as cold as he experienced up north. Still, the snow brings back memories he tries very hard to keep buried.

When he reaches the point where his pathway forks from the main road, he stops and ponders if he should drop by Jon to see if he’s alright. He looks in the direction of the little forest that separates his land from Jon’s, rubbing his cold hands together. His breath billows into a small cloud in front of his face. While he squints into the darkness, the snowbank further down the road starts moving. The blood freezes in Tormund’s veins when he realizes it’s not a snowbank at all but the massive white wolf, slowly prowling towards him. He is already so near that Tormund can see the red glow of his eyes. With a yelp Tormund starts running towards his house. He didn’t bother clearing the snow from the path that evening and it’s biting him in the ass now. He feels like he is treading water. The snow sucks on his boots, clutching him with greedy hands. He has to fight each step to pull his foot free. His heart is beating out of his chest. This is it. This is how he’s going to die.

Something heavy lands on his back, knocking him down to the ground and the breath out of his lungs. The side of his face is smashed into the snow. When he dares to open his eyes, he can make out a massive paw in front of him. It’s as big as his head. Above him the wolf is silent save for his pants. Tormund squeezes his eyes shut again and waits for the pain. 

But nothing happens. Then a cold, wet snout suddenly touches his ear. The beast’s breath fans over his face. Tormund stops breathing altogether. After what feels like an eternity the snout retreats. He squints one eye open and sees that the paw beside his head has disappeared as well. Through the blood rushing in his ears he didn’t even hear the wolf backing away. He lifts his head and sees the massive beast leisurely trotting back to the main road, the silvery moonlight reflecting in the snow and the wolf’s white fur. Tormund watches frozen until the white shadow is swallowed by darkness. Only then does he dare to move. When he reaches his cottage he feels like he has aged ten years. He passes out right there in the hallway.

The next morning he heads out to Jon. The street hasn’t been cleared yet and it takes him ages to reach Jon’s house. He eyes each bump of snow with mistrust, but the wolf is nowhere to be seen. He comes upon a different sort of lump in front of Jon’s house. There, in a heap, lies Jon, his naked skin as white as the surrounding snow. Tormund runs to him. 

But not everything is as pristine as snow. His lips are painted red with blood, like a gaping wound. A small trickle runs from the corner of his mouth, disappearing into his beard. His fingers are red as well. Terror squeezes Tormund like a fist, choking the breath out of him. He holds his hand underneath Jon’s nose and feels a flutter of air. Then why does Tormund still feel chilled to the bone? He looks at Jon’s face, avoiding his bloody beard, and the terror recedes a little. Memories of their quiet dinners rush to the surface of his mind. He can’t believe that this Jon would hurt somebody. With a sigh, he picks up Jon’s motionless form and stumbles to the bathroom in the parody of a routine.

While the tub fills with water he wets a washcloth and cleans Jon’s hands and face. He is so focused on erasing every drop of red around Jon’s mouth that he doesn’t realize that his eyes have opened. Jon just looks at him. Tormund lets the cloth fall into the water.

“You can’t keep doing this,” Tormund whispers. “You could have frozen to death in the snow. Or worse, being eaten by that massive…” Tormund voice tapers off. His eyes widen in horror. A terrible suspicion sneaks up on him but that can’t be. It’s absurd, despite the weird regularity in which they find themselves in this situation. A regularity that coincidences with the full moon. He might have grown up in tents around the fire where old tales were told about beasts from myth but it all sounds ridiculous in broad daylight.

Jon’s eyes are glued to his face. It’s as if he’s begging for something but Tormund doesn’t know what.

“Jon, whose blood was that?” Tormund asks quietly.

Pain flickers over Jon’s face but then suddenly he closes the distance between them and presses his lips against his. Tormund is so shocked that his lips part in a gasp. Jon uses that to slip his tongue inside his mouth and kisses him deeply. His wet hands clutch Tormund’s face, pulling him closer and angling his head slightly. The kiss is so desperate and heated, it melts all thoughts out of Tormund’s brain. Just when he thinks he is going to suffocate under Jon’s onslaught, Jon pulls back.

“Don’t ask me things you don’t want to hear the answer to,” Jon pants before diving in again, snarling slightly.

Tormund’s brain short circuits. He knows deep down that he shouldn’t let Jon do this, divert him from the things they need to talk about. But it feels so good to finally have him like this. Jon pulls back and climbs out of the tub, dripping water all over the floor. He takes Tormund’s hand and pulls him to the bedroom, pushing him down on the mattress. He follows him up on the bed, crawling on all fours. Despite his nakedness there is something predatory in his movements. Heat thrums through Tormund’s veins. He ignores the feeble attempts of the rational part of his brain that tries to warn him.

“You can have me,” Jon says with an almost unrecognizable voice before bending down to bite Tormund’s lip. A mixture of pleasure and pain shoots through him and Tormund reflexively grips Jon’s hip hard, pulling him down. They both groan when their groins touch. Tormund grabs Jon’s ass and rolls his hips against him. Jon growls, countering the movement with his own hips. He starts nosing along Tormund’s face like a big dog and Tormund freezes.

“No.”

Jon stills above him. His eyes are blown black, wet curls frame his face and his lips are moist and red, but not from blood this time. He looks positively sinful. Tormund closes his eyes. His hands are still on Jon’s ass. Anger courses through him and he digs his fingers in deeper. In that moment, he resents Jon for playing him like this.

“Isn’t this what you wanted?” he hears Jon ask, still close to his face.

“Not like this,” Tormund growls and pushes against Jon’s chest. It’s like trying to move a boulder. After a moment Jon rolls to the side, graceful as ever and even this makes Tormund sick. On top of that, Jon has the audacity to look hurt.

“You know I want you. But as long as you are keeping things from me, this ends here.”

Jon’s face hardens.

“You don’t know what you are asking for.”

“Why don’t you try me?” Tormund snaps back.

But Jon just rolls out of bed and rummages in his closet for some clothes. Tormund watches him slip into a pair of grey sweatpants wordlessly. He knows it’s already a lost cause. It’s impossible to get something out of Jon when he’s like this. They won’t be having this conversation today. Still, he is reluctant to leave with the state of things being what they are now between them. But when Jon continues to ignore him, pulling a black shirt over his head, Tormund gets off the bed and walks to the door. He is halfway down the driveway, having passed the hollow in the snow where he found Jon, when he hears the door creak. He stops and looks over his shoulder. Jon stands in the doorway, looking like a lost puppy. But he doesn’t say a word.

So Tormund grits his teeth and continues on his arduous path home.

  
  


When Tormund enters the bar that evening he immediately knows something has happened. It’s packed. People huddle together, talking in hushed voices and a somber mood hangs in the air. Tormund’s usual spot at the bar is occupied. He walks to the side of the counter and orders an ale, letting his eyes sweep the room. Jon’s friends sit around a table near the door, but Jon is not with them. Not that Tormund expected him to be.

“What happened?” He asks Mance.

“They found a body. One of the residents. Not sure you know him. Name’s Glover.” Mance supplies the harrowing news matter of factly.

Tormund nearly chokes on his ale. He forces it down his throat and tries very hard to appear shocked. Not that it’s much of a stretch.

“Do they know who did it?” He asks casually.

“Looks like it was a bear. Or maybe some wolves.”

Tormund looks into his ale. Images from this morning flash before his eyes. Jon’s heated gaze. The feel of his lips against him. Tormund waits for the terror, the disgust but he feels nothing of the sort. What he does feel he can’t name. It’s varied and complicated save for the one clear thought seared into his brain - the myths from his youth are real.

“Never know what dwells in these old woods,” he murmurs after a while. 

He grabs his ale and wanders over to Jon’s friends. They look up and greet him when they see him approach.

“Jon been at work today?”

“Yeah,” Sam eyes him, then adds, “but he took the rest of the week off. Some kind of family emergency. He went home to Winterfell.”

“‘Course he did,” Tormund mutters grimly, feeling numb. 

He knocks back his ale, trying to wash down the bitter taste in his mouth but it’s not working.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again, Salon_Kitty.


	4. Absence makes the heart grow fonder

Jon doesn’t show his face for the next three weeks. One week slips into another and then another. Something with his sister, Sam informed him. Tormund is doubtful. He didn’t peg Jon as a coward but it seems obvious that Jon is avoiding him. His mood is as sour as the ale he drinks to get out of his head. People are giving him an even wider berth than usual, as he sits at the counter, scowling into his glass. 

The past few weeks gave Tormund a lot of time to mull over what exactly he is angry about. It wasn’t the fact that Jon killed a man. He has seen his fair share of death. Good people -- women, children -- who deserved a future. So he doesn’t exactly feel compassion for the cunt who wished him and his people dead while blocking him in an aisle of tinned meat.

And if he is honest with himself, he understands why Jon is so reluctant to reveal his secret, no matter how close they’ve grown over the past months. There is a difference between sharing bits and pieces of your lifestory and admitting you turn into a fucking wolf every full moon. If Jon had told him that the first morning he found him in the garden, Tormund would probably have called a shrink. He doesn’t think he was ready for the truth the second time either. Hell, he still has trouble grasping that Jon and that massive white beast are the same creature.

But Jon had manipulated him. Tormund wanted him from the moment he laid eyes on him at this very bar all those weeks ago. Wanted to explore the naked expanse of skin he’d seen several times now with hands, and teeth and tongue. But he quashed these impulses because he really came to like the guy, the more time they spent together. Jon weaseled his way underneath Tormund’s defences - weird sleepwalking habits and all. And Tormund didn’t want to lose that friendship. He doesn’t have that many friends south of the Wall after all. Or North for that matter. Not anymore.

Jon, though, had clearly sensed that there was more to it on Tormund’s side. And he had used this against him, to get out of a tight situation. He feels betrayed most of all.

If that means Tormund’s priorities are fucked, so be it.

“Cheer up, big ol’ grump!” Ygritte sings in his ear. He bats her away. “Your little friend is back in town. Now do me a favor and stop scaring away my customers or I’m going to throw you out.”

“What?” Tormund looks around.

“Well, he’s not here tonight. Obviously.” Ygritte rolls her eyes. “But he was in yesterday.”

Tormund harrumphs into his ale. Figures that the little fucker shows up the day he wasn’t at the bar. He eyes Edd and Grenn in the corner. They haven’t told him yet. Either Jon asked them to, or his foul mood has scared them off. The odds are probably fifty-fifty. Tormund ponders what to do next. He wants Jon to come to him. He is the one who has some explaining to do after all. So he decides to give Jon another chance to take that first step.

When Pyp tells him the following evening that yes, Jon was at work, but no, he still hasn’t shown up at Mance’s tonight, Tormund only growls. Pyp ducks his head and cowers before him. He is so fucking tired of this cat and mouse game. The fact that Jon is the mouse in this scenario only makes Tormund chuckle mirthlessly. Pyp watches him with wide eyes. He pats the boy on the shoulder and leaves the bar. If Jon doesn’t have the balls to come to him, he is going to confront him right now.

Tormund stomps through the snow, his angry huffs billowing around him in little clouds. The crisp air is laced with the sharp smell of smoke trailing from the chimneys. His ears burn from the cold. He forgot his hat at the bar. This only makes him angrier. But when he nears the edge of town, the sight of the plethora of stars enfolding above him, soothes him a little. He is powerless against this beauty. His eyes find the moon, nearly full, rising from the horizon. Just a small picturesque cloud hovering at the lower rim. Tormund slows down. A plan forms in his mind. Two can play this game. When he reaches the pathway to his cottage, Tormund leaves the street and follows it home.

***

The day of the full moon Tormund makes sure to leave work early. He picks up a six pack and two steaks from the grocery store, and drives straight to Jon’s house. Nerves make his stomach twinge while he parks the car next to Jon’s black one. He turns the key and looks over at the house. The sun hasn’t gone down yet, it’s still light out, but Tormund thinks he sees movement behind the kitchen window.

He marches over to the house, the meat and beer under one arm and knocks at the door. Nothing happens. He knocks again, louder this time. Jon opens the door and looks up at him.

“Now is not a good time, Tormund,” he says tiredly. He is clad in grey sweats and a teal shirt. There are dark circles under his eyes. Tormund mercilessly crushes the spark of worry he feels at the sight.

“I haven’t seen you in nearly a month. You didn’t even tell me, you were back. Now I’m standing here, bringing you food and beer as a peace offering and you’re gonna turn me away?” He doesn’t even feel bad for laying it on thick.

Jon sighs and opens the door wider to let him in.

Tormund makes a beeline for the kitchen. He opens a can of beer and busies himself at the stove. Jon leans against the doorframe watching him warily.

“How’s your family?” Tormund asks cheerfully, searching through the cabinets for a pan.

“I know how it looks. But that’s not why I was back home.”

“Everyone alright?” Tormund asks innocently, turning on the stove.

Jon hesitantly steps into the kitchen.

“My brother called me because Sansa, my sister, had trouble with an ex. He didn’t take no for an answer and was following her. Robb wanted me to come over so we could rough him up a little and look after her for a bit. And then I stayed over for the holidays.”

“Mmhh, roughing him up a little. Why not eat him?”

Jon flinches. Then his eyes narrow. Why has Tormund never noticed before how lupine he looks?

“Tormund, I know you want to talk. But this is not a good time,” he says calmly.

“Oh, so you mean you want to talk another time. How about tomorrow? Yeah, no. I thought so. Did you hear about Glover?”

Jon looks to the floor. “Yes,” he says with his pout to full effect. Tormund doesn’t know if he wants to slap or kiss it.

“Am I supposed to feel flattered?”

Jon sighs again.

“You are not going to believe me anyway, but there was more going on than just him heckling you.”

Tormund cocks an eyebrow at him. He turns off the stove and faces him fully. Jon squirms a bit under his gaze. Tormund doesn’t even need to say anything.

“Glover was part of an extremist underground ring. They are targeting Freefolk. I have been tracking them for over a year now. They were planning something.”

Tormund purses his lips and nods. “How convenient.”

“It’s the truth,” Jon growls and starts pacing. 

Tormund watches him prowl back and forth. He already knows he believes him. He doesn’t give a shit about the dead guy anyway. But he’s still angry. 

“So, the guy was a racist fuck and dangerous. That’s all there is to it.”

“Him being an ass to you might have accelerated things,” Jon mutters. He glances out the window and pulls at his hair. The sun has gone down.

“I guess I should feel flattered after all,” Tormund deadpans, watching Jon’s antics with crossed arms.

Jon suddenly comes up to him and grips his arms painfully. 

“Tormund, you need to leave. Now.” He implores, beseeching him with desperate eyes. There is already a red glow in them.

Tormund plants his feet on the ground. He doesn’t succeed in shaking off Jon’s fingers from his arms. Jon grips him with inhuman strength.

“I’m not leaving,” Tormund says with finality.

“For fucks sake, Tormund!” Jon rips his hands away and paces again agitatedly. His eyes flicker to the window. He scratches his ears. Tormund watches, torn between fascination and trepidation.

Jon turns around so fast Tormund’s eyes can’t follow.

“I swear to you, we’ll talk tomorrow. You can ask me anything you want and I’ll tell you the truth. But I need you to leave right now.”

Tormund can’t say he is unaffected by Jon’s desperation. A flicker of fear roils in his gut. But he told himself he would do this. And he trusts Jon. Even now.

“You are not going to hurt me. I’ve already met you as a wolf. You didn’t kill me,” he says with more calm than he feels.

“That doesn’t mean I want to risk it!” Jon shouts and sprints out of the kitchen in a flash.

Tormund blinks, taken aback. Following him might not be a good idea. He is still fairly sure Jon won’t hurt him but it might be the tiniest bit suicidal to chase him in this state. Tormund wavers on his feet a bit looking at the raw meat next to the pan. Then he hears a loud crash and an ear-shattering howl pierces the night. Tormund runs to the window. Out under the glimmering moonlight, the white wolf stands in the driveway, shredding Jon’s pants into pieces with his fangs before stepping out of them. The teal-colored strings of his shirt lie next to him.

Tormund tries to calm his wildly beating heart and walks to the front door. He opens it slowly and peeks out. The wolf hasn’t moved. Hesitantly Tormund steps out and climbs down the steps to the driveway. The glowing red eyes of the wolf watch his every move. He scarcely dares to breathe. Up close he can see how truly massive the beast is. Its head is on Tormund’s level even on all fours.

Tormund exhales shakily. 

“I see you. And I’m not afraid.” He swallows. “You are not alone, Jon.”

The wolf remains silent and regards him for a moment longer. Then he turns around and trots away.

Tormund’s legs give out and he sinks to his knees. A hysterical chuckle bubbles out of him. Look at you, Giantsbane, the wolf whisperer. Only you could fall in love with a fucking werewolf. Shaking his head he gets back up and returns to the house. He finishes off the sixpack to calm his nerves and crawls into Jon’s bed.

***

Light filters through the curtains, tickling Tormund’s eyes and nose. He sneezes. Then the events of last night come to him and he sits up quickly, looking around. The space next to him is empty like it was when he crawled under the covers. He sighs and plants his feet on the comforter next to the bed. His eyes fall on a framed picture of Jon and a little girl on the nightstand. He picks up the frame and examines the photograph. Jon looks a lot younger. That must be his youngest sister then. They look alike. Tormund wonders with a pang in his heart if she knows what her big brother is battling with. He sets the picture back on the nightstand and heads to the bathroom. 

He falls over Jon in the hallway.

“Jesus, fuck! Jon!” He hops around on one foot, clutching his other, before catching himself at the door frame. Jon lies in a familiar heap on the floor, not moving. Heaving a heavy sigh, Tormund goes to the bathroom, opens the tap and fills the tub with water.

“At least I don’t have to carry you inside this time,” he mutters, picking Jon up and dumping him into the water.

When he returns from the bedroom with a change of clothes, he finds Jon’s dark, impermeable eyes watching him. Tormund stops next to the tub and kneels down. Brushing a curl from Jon’s forehead he asks, “How are you feeling?”.

“I’m okay.” Jon gives him a pained smile.

“See? I was right. You didn’t hurt me,” Tormund says smugly.

Jon squeezes his eyes shut and grimaces.

“That was so, so stupid of you.” His eyes flutter open and he pins Tormund with a dark look. “Seriously. Do you have a death wish?”

Tormund chooses to ignore that.

“Are you conscious when you’re in your wolf form? Do you still have your thoughts?”

“Yes and no. It does feel a lot like sleepwalking. From the moment I change to the moment I wake up, everything is muted and far away, like a dream.” His features twist. “The wolf has other priorities. Doesn’t give a shit about my issues. Acts more out of instinct.”

“How come you never make it back to your bed and I always find you lying around naked?”

Jon huffs. “The wolf doesn’t have the best grasp of time. I try to make it back before first light but I usually pass out somewhere on the way here.”

“We need to do something about that.”

“We?” Jon echoes. “Why haven’t you run away screaming yet?”

“Yes, “we”. Because now you don't have any excuses to run away or hide things from me anymore.” Tormund swallows. “Unless you don’t want this.”

Jon’s eyes soften and he cups Tormund’s cheek with a wet hand.

“I do. Against my better judgment.” Then his jaw cracks into the biggest yawn Tormund has ever seen. “But can we take a nap first? I’m totally knackered.”

Tormund helps him out of the tub and rubs him down.

“Don’t you usually go to work the day after?” He asks while toweling Jon’s head.

“Yeah, it would be suspicious if I was sick the day after every full moon. But I always feel like shit,” comes the muffled reply.

Once he is dry, Jon shuffles to his bedroom and crawls under the covers with another yawn. He is still nude. Tormund hoovers in the doorway hesitantly. Jon turns his head and squints at him.

“You coming or what?”

Tormund crosses the room to the bed and pulls his jumper over his head. Tugging at his pants he asks, “Shouldn’t you call in sick?”

“Right.” Jon pats the nightstand for his phone, knocking over the picture of him and Arya.

Tormund slips under the covers while Jon calls work. This feels surreal. Jon hangs up and burrows back under the thick duvet.

“Shouldn’t you give notice as well?” He asks sleepily.

“Already did. Took the day off.”

Jon blinks his eyes open and watches him blearily.

“You planned all of this.”

Tormund shrugs. “So you wanna talk now? I’m game.”

“No,” comes Jon’s reply in a small voice. “Let me catch a bit of sleep first.”

“Alright”

After a moment Jon inches a bit closer to him and presses against Tormund’s side. Tormund lifts his arm and pulls him flush against him. Jon lays his head on his shoulder and is out in seconds, snoring softly into Tormund’s ear. Tormund watches the old wooden beams at the ceiling. He feels every point of contact between them like a branding along his side. Jon really does run hot when he’s not passed out in the snow.

***

Tormund sees the exact moment Jon wakes up. First his eyelids flutter, then he scrunches up his nose like a bunny. It makes Tormund smile but it fades when Jon’s eyes blink open and instantly focus on him. Tension crackles between them. Tormund rolls on top of him and finally does what he’s been wanting to do for so long. He leans down and kisses him. 

Jon’s lips part easily and Tormund licks into his mouth, a spark of arousal already igniting at the base of his spine. Jon lazily curls his tongue around his before giving it a nip. When Tormund draws back, Jon’s pupils are dilated and there is hunger in his eyes. It matches his own. He slides down Jon’s body, wrestling free of the comforter they are trapped in, and stops to bite at his chest. It pulls a small moan from Jon’s lips. Locking eyes with him, he moves further down. Jon has propped himself up on his elbows, his fingers clawed in the sheets by his side, watching him panting. Tormund shoulders his thighs further apart, and without breaking eye contact takes him into his mouth. Jon lets his head drop back, exposing the line of his throat, and groans. 

Tormund loses himself in the sight and taste of Jon. His little mewls and moans shoot straight to Tormund's groin and suddenly he can’t wait anymore. He crawls back up Jon’s body and rocks against him. Jon’s hands are still fisted in the sheets, tearing them slightly but he picks up Tormund’s rhythm and moves with him. He’s been laying next to Jon naked for hours, so he’s not really embarrassed by how quickly he feels the first tendrils of his climax. But even in the haze of arousal Tormund notices how coiled Jon is beneath him, as if he is restraining himself. He leans down and bites Jon’s ear, the side of his throat, his bottom lip and kisses him again, hard. Jon ruts more desperately against him and Tormund is lost, chasing his release.

After gulping down a few lungfuls of air, he slides a hand to Jon’s groin to finish him off but finds that Jon has come as well. He reaches for his discarded shirt next to the bed and cleans them off before sinking into the mattress, waiting for his racing heart to slow down. His eyelids are getting heavy, a satisfying exhaustion settling in his bones. But he senses that Jon is still tense next to him. He squints open an eye.

“You were holding back,” Tormund voices his thoughts.

Jon presses his lips together in the imitation of a smile.

Tormund sighs and looks at the ceiling.

“Let’s get this over with then.”

“Where do you want me to start?” Jon asks quietly after a moment.

Tormund glances at Jon who has turned on his side and watches him intently. Tormund rolls to his side as well, so he can face him.

“How about at the beginning. What happened? How did you change? Did you get bitten like in the stories?”

“Yeah.” There is pain in Jon’s eyes now but he doesn’t look away. “Remember when I told you how I got shot?” 

Tormund nods. 

“I was dying that night.”

“Who shot you?” Tormund interrupts.

“They said it was some terrorists from the North. But I know it was someone from my own team. The first bullet hit me in the back, from the direction where my backup was supposed to be. I twisted from the impact. The flashes of the other shots I saw with my own eyes. They came from the force.”

Tormund’s heart clenches painfully. So he was right about those bullet scars after all.

“I was bleeding out in seconds, down in the snow. Nobody came for me. They said afterwards that it was too far beyond the border.” Jon snorts without humor. 

“Then suddenly a beautiful woman with red hair appeared in front of me. I thought she was the angel of death or some shit.”

“Red hair?”

“Shut up. She said I would die any moment now. And then she asked me if I wanted to live. To take revenge on the assholes who shot me. She claimed she could help me. I was half dead at that point, so I said yes. Then she picked me up like I was a feather and carried me off somewhere.”

Jon peeks up at him through his eyelashes but Tormund remains silent, listening intently.

“Next thing I remember we were in a house and she was fucking and biting me.”

Tormund’s eyebrows climb up to his forehead. “So you have to be fucked to get turned? How come everyone excludes that little detail in the tales?”

There is color in Jon’s cheeks now. “I’m not sure the fucking was part of the… changing process.”

Tormund harrumphs and looks him over. “Where is the bite mark?”

Jon lifts his shoulder. Tormund’s eyes find the ragged scar he noticed the first time he found Jon naked in his garden. He strokes his fingers over the raised scar tissue. Jon’s skin pebbles in goosebumps.

“Did she bite you in human or wolf form?”

“Human. I think?” 

Tormund fingers still.

“I was hardly conscious that night. I don’t remember much.”

“Maybe that’s for the best,” Tormund mutters darkly. There are images in his head now he really can do without. He walks his fingers down Jon’s arm and slides his hand around his waist, stroking the skin there softly.

“Did you see her again?”

“Yes.” There is something in Jon’s voice that makes Tormund look back up at him.

“Did you fuck her again?”

Jon sighs. “Yes.” He keeps his eyes focused on Tormund’s face.

“I didn’t want to see her at first, after I realized what she had done to me.”

“So you didn’t know what she would do?”

“Of course not!” Jon exclaims scandalized. “I wouldn’t have let her do it, if I had known. And who in their right mind would even believe such a thing.”

Tormund clutches Jon’s waist. “Well, I’m glad she did. I wouldn’t have met you otherwise.”

Jon huffs but his eyes are soft.

“But she is my sire, we are connected somehow. She sought me out a few days after I had turned and I sent her away. I didn’t want anything to do with her. But she was the only one who knew exactly what I was going through. And yeah, being a lot stronger even in this form is not exactly making it easy to get close to others. I was aware that I wasn’t the best relationship material and I didn’t dare to fuck random people because I was afraid I would get carried away and hurt them.”

“Oh, so you went back to her because you were horny.”

Jon slaps his chest but his cheeks and ears have reddened.

“She is as strong as me, if not stronger. So yes, I’m pretty sure she is the only one I know I can’t hurt. At least not unintentionally.”

Tormund lets out a low whistle. “Bet you razed houses during your fucking.”

Jon groans and hides his face in Tormund’s shoulder. But when he rolls back to his side after a moment his eyes are serious.

“Once you go through what I do each full moon, lose control of your body like that, but also become so much more, you start to see a lot of things differently.”

“Like what?” 

Jon’s eyes grow distant.

“When I was younger, I always had this chip on my shoulder. I never dared to try out some of the things I was curious about because I didn’t want to fuck up the relationship with my stepmom any further. Didn’t want to risk my already precarious position at the police force. But after Mel turned me, it all became so inconsequential.”

“Mel?”

“Her name is Melisandre. Let’s just say, every hang-up I had about sex before seemed rather trifling after her.”

Tormund lets that sink in. There is a small niggle of worry in the back of his mind because how can he compete with that?

“So you held back because you are afraid of hurting me.”

“Tormund, I have only been with my kind since I got turned.” 

That stops Tormund cold. “Are there others?”

“Not here. But she took me north of the Wall a couple of times. Her pack lives there.”

Tormund again thinks of the tales of his youth. They have been living among them all this time.

Jon’s gaze turns heated and pulls him back into the present moment. “Never wanted to get close to someone else until now.”

Well, Tormund can work with that. He decides here and now that he doesn’t care what Jon’s been up to before. He is here with him now. That’s all that matters. He rolls Jon to his back as fast as his plain human body allows him to, and pins Jon’s hands over his head.

“You are not going to fuck her again. You hear me?”

Jon blinks up at him lazily. Tormund is aware that Jon could probably send him flying off the bed with a flick of his wrists. But he allows himself to be held down. It gives Tormund a weird thrill.

“Yeah?” Jon breathes.

“Yeah. Because the only one who’s fucking you from now on is me.” He underlines this statement with a roll of his hips.

“Think you can handle me?” Jon’s eyes are blazing. “It’s gotta be you who...”

Tormund growls and knees Jon’s legs apart in answer. Then he leans down and clamps his teeth over Jon’s lip.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your help after this roller coaster of a week, Salon_Kitty.


	5. Full Moon

They meet up after work at Castle Black. Tormund gives a wave to the Short Boys club, his eyes meeting Jon’s, who gives him a small, private smile. Tormund heads to his regular spot at the bar while Jon bends down to talk to Sam before joining him at the counter.

“Would you look at this? Is that a smile I see on your face, big guy?”

Ygritte plunks her empty tray next to him on the bar and grins obnoxiously. She leans around Tormund to address Jon.

“You wouldn’t believe what a moping mess this guy’s been while you were out of town.” Jon looks at her amused.

“Pining like a maiden, I tell ya. Two ales coming up.” She picks up her tray and twirls away, disappearing behind the counter.

“Pining?” Jon smirks at him.

“Oh shut up,” Tormund grumbles.

“Or what?” Jon is still smirking at him. Like so many times recently Tormund is torn between wanting to hit and to kiss him.

He leans close to Jon.

“Or I’ll put you over my knee. I don’t care how strong you think you are.”

Jon hums contemplatively, eyes dark.

“Kinky little fucker,” Tormund mutters but he makes a mental note.

When Ygritte returns with two mugs of ale they join the others at the table. Pyp seems to have gotten over his fear of Tormund. Or maybe he thinks Jon will protect him from Tormund's big scary self. If only he knew. Jon laughs at something Edd says, but Tormund isn't listening. His attention is focused on Jon’s smile, how it transforms his entire face. He really is turning into a sap, Tormund thinks, resigned. But then Jon’s warm eyes cut to his and he feels Jon’s leg press against his own under the table. 

  
  


They walk home together in companionable silence. The sky is overcast, so no stars illuminate their way. But Tormund doesn’t mind. He glances at Jon who walks beside him with sure strides. Occasionally he turns his head to look this way and that. Sometimes he tilts his nose up as if he caught a smell.

“Why don’t you go back to the police force?” Tormund voices what has been going through his mind lately.

Jon stops abruptly. “What?”

“I mean, I know there’s bad blood because some of them more or less killed you. But why don’t you use your… skills to sniff them out? Literally. Wait.” Tormund tries to see Jon’s face in the dark. “Are they even still alive?”

“Some,” Jon mutters and starts walking again.

“So why don’t you?” Tormund catches up with him. “And then use your new skill set to your advantage. Chase all the bad guys. Or eat them.”

Jon snorts.

“I’m serious. What exactly can you do now besides being stronger than your little ass has any right to be.” Tormund has an epiphany. “Is that why nobody dares to whoop your ass? Or does anybody know?”

“Nobody knows. But when I moved here, Glover and his ragtag team of assholes tried to jump me one time. They didn’t try again.”

Tormund nods. “So what can you do?”

“I can see better at night.”

Tormund hums and counts with his fingers. “So, night vision. Comes in handy. What else? Better sense of smell? I bet you can hear anything in a three mile radius as well.”

Jon grunts.

“Should have known that before moving in next door,” Tormund mutters. They walk a short distance.

“Jon,” he says after a while. “I could tell it was important to you. You had a good relationship with your boss. Why not try to make a difference?”

“Who says I would change anything for the better?” Jon whirls around. “You overestimate my control. Just because I can keep myself in check around you doesn’t mean I’m not a risk to everyone else. Besides, how can I explain dodging night shifts every full moon or being a fucking mess the day after? And if I fuck up it would fall back on Mormont.” 

His eyes search the sky before he glances back at Tormund. “I can’t risk taking him down with me.”

Tormund looks at Jon. Since _he_ can’t fucking see at night, he has trouble making out Jon’s expression. But Tormund is pretty sure he has that forlorn look on his face that haunts his features whenever they talk about Jon’s wolf.

“Then why are you guarding the camp, if you’re so sure you are a risk for other people?” Tormund asks quietly.

Jon rubs a hand through his hair and exhales harshly.

“It’s different. Sam and the boys have my back. It’s all very clear cut. ‘Don’t let anyone inside who doesn’t belong.’ I don’t have to make difficult choices. And I can track those racist fucks on my own terms without having to report to someone.”

Tormund can’t say that this logic makes sense in his head but he doesn’t press the issue. Jon clearly doesn’t want to go back. And it makes no difference to him if Jon is looking out for his people as part of the police force or by guarding the camp and being a vigilante werewolf at night. He lets out a small chuckle. He still can’t believe he is entertaining these kinds of thoughts.

“You should come with me sometime. To the camp.” Jon steps closer to him, touching his hand lightly.

Tormund sobers.

“Yeah. I know,” he says quietly. Jon hooks his finger around his.

“I will,” he adds after a long moment.

Jon accepts this without another word. He pulls Tormund down the road, their fingers still tangled.

When they reach the fork in the street to Tormund’s cottage Jon slows down. Tormund keeps walking down the path to his house. When Jon doesn’t follow immediately he glances back at him over his shoulder.

“Wanna come over?” He can’t believe he needs to spell this out every time. But Jon is fickle. Sometimes he can’t keep his hands off him, delighting Tormund with his forwardness. And other times he is skittish as a young colt, convinced Tormund will tell him to fuck off and never come back.

Jon finally gets moving and catches up with him. 

A thought suddenly occurs to Tormund. 

“Did you eat the previous owner of my house?” 

“No,” Jon grumbles, miffed. “But he saw me a few times. Might have scared him off.” 

“His loss,” Tormund shrugs. 

Together they walk to the house, brushing shoulders on the way.

  
  


***

  
  


The next full moon Tormund takes the entire day off. He knows he can’t do this often before it becomes suspicious. But this is the first moon with him and Jon finally on the same page. Of course, Jon tried to talk him out of it. Said it was still too risky, getting increasingly more anxious with each passing day. But when Tormund said he had a right to know exactly what he was getting into, that shut him up. 

This is why Tormund finds himself in line at the grocery store, waiting for his turn. On the band lie five big steaks (those are mostly for Jon), some vegetables and a few meager winter tomatoes (these are for him), as well as several bottles of ale. The bored cashier scans his things and Tormund hurries to his car. There is still time before the sun sets but Tormund intends to get some food into Jon before it does.

He unloads his grocery bag on the kitchen counter and starts chopping his tomatoes. The meat for Jon won’t take long. He prefers it almost raw this close to his change. As if summoned by his thoughts Jon slinks into the kitchen. He is in black sweats and a grey hoodie. Tormund wonders absentmindedly how fast he must go through clothes. 

Jon comes over to him and rubs his face against Tormund’s shoulder before starting to pace. His restlessness is contagious, spreading through the room and gripping Tormund as well. It’s setting him on edge. He stops chopping, mindful of his fingers and glances over his shoulder. Jon has stopped in front of the window and glares out into the driveway, pulling at his hair.

Tormund sets the knife down, washes his hands and joins him in front of the window.

“Why are you doing that thing with your hair? Does it help somehow?”

“Huh?” Jon turns to him distractedly. Tormund smoothes down his hair.

“Oh. It’s just… I’m itching all over. It’s like I’m tearing at the seams. Pain distracts me.”

Tormund grips a fistfull of Jon’s curls and pulls hard, making him hiss.

“Like that?”

Jon’s eyes have narrowed to slits and his upper lip is curled in a snarl but he nods, pulling his hair even tighter under Tormund’s grip.

“I can think of a better distraction.”

“No,” Jon grits out, “too risky”.

“There is time yet. And you are making me antsy.”

Tormund pulls again on Jon’s hair, exposing the side of his throat, and sinks his teeth into the soft skin of his neck. Jon keens. Tormund feels the vibrations against his lips.

Suddenly, Jon spins them around, walking Tormund back against the counter while attacking his mouth. Tormund uses all his strength to push him back a little.

“Down, boy!” 

Jon looks at him panting, eyes blown black. 

“We are doing this my way.” Tormund fixes Jon with a hard stare. “Strip. Then turn around.”

Jon’s upper lip curls but he does as he is told. He’s out of his clothes in the blink of an eye. With a last heated look at Tormund he turns around, bending a little, and props his hands on the counter.

Tormund’s mouth runs dry. It’s overwhelming sometimes, the rush of power he feels in moments like these. That a being as powerful as Jon willingly bends to his will.

He steps close to Jon and presses against his back, still clothed. 

“Good boy,” he murmurs into his ear, and reaches around to grab Jon’s cock as he nips his shoulder hard. Just over the bite mark. Something dark and possessive takes hold of him. Jon moans and bucks against him. Tormund wraps his other arm tightly around Jon’s chest and leaves a trail of bites along the meat of his shoulder. Then he loosens his hold and slides his fingers up Jon’s throat and between his lips. Belatedly, he realizes that this might not have been a good idea. He tries to steer clear of Jon’s canines but Jon curls his tongue around his digits and starts sucking. Tormund feels a responding pull in his groin. He can’t help himself, Jon’s mouth has driven him crazy these past weeks. He rubs his hardness against Jon’s ass and Jon rolls his hips fluidly, pressing back.

Reluctantly, Tormund pulls his fingers free, runs them down Jon’s abs and thrusts two into him. Jon drops his head. After a moment, he starts pushing back and picks up a rhythm. Heat thrums in his veins and Tormund can’t wait anymore. When he retreats his hands to open his trousers, Jon spins around with a snarl. His eyes are already gleaming with a red hue. Arousal and a faint hint of fear are clouding Tormund’s mind. He knows he needs to keep a clear head but he has trouble thinking straight. Jon attacks him with biting kisses, pushing him back against the kitchen table. A leftover coffee mug clatters to the floor, shattering to pieces. Jon licks a stripe from the tip of his nose to his forehead.

Tormund fists his hair and pulls Jon off him, bending him over the table. 

“I said, down, boy!”

Jon lets himself be moved and drops to his elbows with a thump. Tormund sinks into his heat and starts fucking him. His hand is still in Jon’s curls, pulling his head back, the slope of his back a sinuous curve. When Tormund manages to hit that spot inside of him, Jon moans. A thin layer of sweat covers his skin, highlighting the rolling muscles of his back. Heat consumes Tormund as well, making him feel light-headed. But there is no force on this earth that could make him stop now. He quickens his rhythm, rocking the table with their combined force. There is a low buzzing in his ear but then he realizes that it’s a low, continuous growl coming from Jon. Tormund pulls his head to the side and bites the shell of his ear.

“Think you can come without me touching your cock?”

Jon snarls again and bucks hard, knocking Tormund to the ground. For a split second Tormund thinks he has miscalculated. The small flicker of trepidation does nothing to temper his arousal. But then Jon rolls him onto his back, impales himself on his cock and starts to move. The grip of Jon’s hands on his wrists is painful but Tormund can take this, carried away on a wave of adrenaline. 

Jon looks down at him, his glowing eyes boring into Tormund’s soul. A lone, wet curl clings to his temple.Tormund feels pinned by his gaze, like a physical thing weighing him down. Then Jon throws his head back and howls his release. The feral beauty of this sight more than the feeling of Jon clenching around him is what pushes Tormund over the edge as well.

Jon sinks down on Tormund’s chest. Tormund strokes his naked back and presses a kiss to the crown of his head, still gasping for breath. Exhaustion threatens to pull him under, now that the rush of adrenaline wanes a little.

“Better?”

Jon rumbles something unintelligible. Tormund takes stock of his various body parts and comes to the conclusion that he is still more or less intact despite his laden limbs. He slaps Jon’s ass.

“Now, let’s get some food into you, so you don’t eat me later.”

Jon rolls off of him with a groan.

Tormund buttons up his pants and heats up the pan while Jon picks up the shattered pieces of the mug. When he reaches for his discarded clothes, Tormund can’t help but quip, “Don’t bother. You’re going to shred them anyway.”

Jon gives him a look but complies. He drops a plate with two steaks in front of Jon who wolfs them down immediately. Tormund watches him from his spot against the counter. Suddenly Jon stops chewing and swallows. His eyes meet Tormund’s.

“It’s time.”

Tormund nods, feeling a flutter of anticipation in his chest.

“I don’t want you to see me change.”

Tormund bows his head in acquiescence. Before he can lift his eyes back up, Jon is out of the door. He surveys the kitchen. The table has been moved halfway across the room. A few shards of the mug remain on the floor. Jon’s clothes lie in a heap in front of the fridge. He glances at the vegetables near his cutting board but he’s not hungry.

A long howl pierces the silence of the night. This time distinctly inhuman.

Tormund grabs his jacket, slips into his boots and rushes out. The wolf - _Jon_ \- waits for him in front of the house.

Gingerly, Tormund steps closer. The glowing red eyes are fixed on him, watching him approach. There is a hint of melancholy in them. Tormund lifts his hand and touches the wolf’s fur at the neck. It’s surprisingly soft. Tormund exhales.

“Where are we going tonight, my boy?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the kind comments. This has been my first fic, so I was pretty intimidated before posting. But you have made this a really great experience.  
> And many, many thanks to Salon_Kitty.


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